One Last Cone
by aranenumenesse
Summary: You have a problem.  Rogan. Third and last part of Sugarcoated.


Another year gone by. Sun is shining, and people are milling around in the park. Kids with their parents, old people, young people, businessmen and –women, lazy people, busy people, normal people, not so normal people and you.

You're not wandering around. You're just sitting on a bench near the ice cream man. You have a problem. Serious problem. You have no idea of how to solve it. You stare at the cart made out of stainless steel so long that the man selling the ice cream from it grabs the handles and pushes the cart away, hiding behind a thick bush to avoid your intense gaze.

You were planning to buy a cone of Italian Vanilla, but the weather is so warm that it would melt before you could get it for her. Of course there are other ice cream stands within short distance of the mansion. In fact there's one right in front of the heavy gates, and he's selling Italian Vanilla. But it wouldn't be the same, now would it? No. It has to be this man. The ice cream man in the park.

You sit. You sit and your ass is starting to turn numb. You can't feel the cracks on the bench beneath you anymore.

You sit and twist and twirl your mind. Scott would probably laugh his ass off. Professor would tell you how thoughtful you are, but there are other ways to do this. Ororo… She'd grab you and drag your ass back to the mansion with or without the cone. Hank would try to prove you that the man selling ice cream in front of the mansion is in fact far better choice due to shorter distance and cheaper price. Yeah. They' do that if they were here. But it's just you now, sitting on this bench.

You sit. Less people around you now. Less noise. Sun is setting. You can hear the ice cream man packing his belongings, lids of his cart clunking sharply when he closes them. It's time to decide.

He looks scared when you approach him. You really can't blame him. You have been sitting here all day, staring at him. And even under the best of circumstances your appearance is startling at least for most of people.

"How much?" You ask, cringing from the scratchy sound of your voice. It has been so long since you have last spoken. Ice cream man glances around worried, obviously trying to find a kind soul brave enough to free him from you. There's nobody around. It's getting dark already.

"How much for…" The man stutters, trying to keep his gaze away from you.

"For the cart. The ice cream in it. How much?" You ask.

"All of it? Uh… I… Listen, are you alright?" The man asks. You suppress the giggles that threaten to escape. If he only knew… It has been a long time since you're last been alright, but it really doesn't matter now.

"How much for the ice cream?" You ground out, and the man pulls a small calculator from his pocket, fiddling with it, then announcing four figure number, face pale and small beads of sweat rising to his forehead. You dig out your wallet and hand him the whole sum.

"Follow me."

You don't have to ask twice. You can hear the soft creaking and chirping of the wheels of the cart from behind you.

You walk through the silent night, small breeze rustling the newborn leaves on the trees. First day of the summer. You check your watch. Still half an hour left before midnight. You're going to make it after all.

"Excuse me?" Ice cream man. Huffing and panting behind his cart.

"What?" He's not supposed to talk.

"Where are we going? I don't know if you have noticed, but this… This is…"

"Restricted zone?" You provide the words the man is clearly reluctant to say out loud.

"Don't worry. Not much further. It's just around the corner…"

"It's not… I don't have anything against you people, it's just… I'm not supposed to be here…" The man is babbling, but one glare is enough to silence him.

You walk past the rows of stones. Find the one you came for. You stop and sit on it. The ice cream man stops as well.

"What…" He starts to ask, but you shush him. Not yet. It's not the right time.

You sit and wait. It doesn't take long. You can almost feel the sun on your face. Soft breeze in your hair.

She's sitting next to you. You have been talking with her earlier, but for the last hour you have been sitting quietly. You can see the ice cream cart further down the path, waiting patiently. You turn to look at her.

"Want some ice cream?" You ask. She nods, flashing a timid smile. You stand up, dig out your wallet, and buy a cone of Italian Vanilla. When you turn back you can hear the ice cream man leaving, muttering something about crazy muties. You tune his voice out, but it's already too late. The spell has broken. There's just you and rapidly softening cone of Italian vanilla dripping over your fingers to the gravestone at your feet.


End file.
